


Off-Season Training

by thursdaysfallenangel



Series: Pay Attention Universe [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bisexual Disaster Dean Winchester, Coming Out, Established Relationship, Exploring Sexuality, Idiots in Love, M/M, Soft Hockey Boys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:40:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29725002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thursdaysfallenangel/pseuds/thursdaysfallenangel
Summary: How do you fill the summer after you win the Stanley Cup? That Dean could have probably figured out just fine. What's new to him are the boyfriend, the bisexuality, and his sudden role model status in the world of LGBTQ sports fans. Dean's a hockey player barely good at relationships, not some sort of hero, but now he better figure out navigating this world with Cas, quick, because he doesn't know what he'll do if he loses him.A series of timestamps in the summer post-Stanley Cup victory.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Pay Attention Universe [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/403111
Comments: 28
Kudos: 136





	Off-Season Training

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the first hundred words of each one of the timestamps I had planned back in 2015 when I first wrote this fic. I just want to say, sincerely, I would not be kicking my ass to finish them without all of you. People /still/ kudos and comment and rec this fic every single day, and I really can't believe that so many of you feel connected to my little labor of love. Thank you.
> 
> Thanks Tricia, for providing the go-juice. Thanks Rachel for all the yelling. Thanks Meg, because this first chapter is the fic I owe you.
> 
> If all goes well, I do want to write some hockey season again, and I have some ideas, so I guess we'll see!
> 
> Thank you <3

Sometimes Dean makes a decision he almost immediately regrets.

Like that time he figured hey, the greats played without a visor. Why couldn’t he? He’d been drafted into the NHL before they started making them mandatory for rookies to wear on their helmets, so he had a choice, god dammit, and his choice was to go old school.

He lasted almost one and a half periods. After a puck nearly left a permanent dent in his forehead, Bobby told him maybe he wanted to rethink that decision.

Actually, it was more like a lot of incoherent swearing and calling him “the biggest idgit ever to step on ice without a tutu” while he held Dean up by the shoulder and pressed a blood soaked towel so hard into his head Dean started to go dizzy.

So yeah, sometimes Dean doesn’t make good decisions, and the world likes to tell him so in the worst way possible.

Dating Cas was not one of those bad decisions. Hell, it was one of the best decisions Dean had ever made, even if it had forced him to not only completely reconsider his sexuality, but to become some kind of figurehead for the LGBTQ community in a world saturated with homophobic slurs and prejudice, all glazed over with a nice topping of hyper masculinity.

He doesn’t regret it, except sometimes. Sometimes the position he’s put himself in makes it damn hard for him to get on with his life.

Not that he’s gonna argue his life was all that normal before. Captain of the Stanley Cup winning NHL team does get you some recognition in the world, and Dean’s no stranger to random people approaching him on the street or in places like the men’s restroom and talking to him like they’ve been friends for years. He’s used to some degree of fame.

But he’s also used to being able to sit in the Roadhouse without being bothered too much, used to throwing on a cap and glasses and hitting up the convenience store down the street from his apartment without it being a whole thing. Ever since coming out as bisexual and admitting that he’s dating his teammate, it’s like Dean’s opened himself up to millions more people. He can’t seem to get away from them. And if he happens to be with Cas at the time he gets spotted? Forget it.

Basically, he and Cas are America’s new sweethearts. Not something Dean really appreciates when he’s trying to get a brand new relationship off the ground. Especially since Dean’s never been good with relationships to begin with, and to top that off, he’s pretty new to the whole guy with guy thing they’re trying out.

It was easy during hockey season, right? Cas was a teammate, then a friend, and then Dean wanted to stick his tongue down his throat. So they did. Easy. Now hockey is over for the season, and what the fuck is he supposed to do?

They’re issues he would have had without the millions of people watching him and probably even rooting for him to fail so they have something to read about during their coffee breaks at their shitty office jobs.

Bastards.

No one has any sympathy for him either.

“You knew this was gonna happen,” Sam had told him in that know-it-all voice the second Dean brought it up. “We talked about this – you didn’t actually have to announce your sexuality to the world, you know.”

Dean was pretty sure Sam should be showing more compassion for a guy who’d just been cooed over and called “cute” by two girls he’s positive weren’t even out of high school yet. “What happened to Mr. Be-A-Role-Model-Save-the-Children-Dean?”

“Since when do you listen to me?” Sam asked with a raised eyebrow, and Dean might have gotten away with not answering if Cas hadn’t wanderedback from the kitchen, handing Dean a water bottle before kissing him on the cheek and causing him to go bright red.

Sam grinned at him. “Oh, that’s right. You’re whipped.”

Dean had thrown his water bottle at him. The sound it made when it thwacked Sam’s forehead and his ensuing shriek wasn’t nearly as satisfying as he’d hoped it would be.

Cas doesn’t really get the problem either, but Dean’s pretty sure that’s because Cas wouldn’t know normal if it stripped him down and started sucking his dick. Dean’d stopped complaining the second Cas had scrunched his face up (not adorable at all) in a confused way and asked if he was unhappy with their current situation.

He said it exactly like that, too. “Are you unhappy with our current situation, Dean?” All squinty eyed and slightly downturned mouth, like there was actually a fucking chance Dean’s answer was gonna be anywhere near the realm of “yes.”

He’d remedied that one real fast. Although now that he thinks about it Cas’ entire sadface shtick might have just been an act to get Dean’s fingers up his ass.

Whatever. Not like they wouldn’t have eventually ended up there anyway.

So, this whole role model thing while trying to maneuver a brand new homosexual relationship. It was tough, and Dean hadn’t even done anything role model worthy yet. Winning the cup means he and the team are being put through a lot of appearances and publicity stunts, and he hasn’t had time to give Mr. Corbitt a call about what exactly he can do for You Can Play next.

Of course, not having any time to himself wasn’t going to stop him from taking Cas on their first official public date. No one, not even Mr. Corbitt, should be surprised to see him sitting here at Wrigley field only a couple of weeks after they’d won the cup.

Never let it be said that Dean has ever passed up the opportunity to teach Cas the finer things America has to offer. Apple pie, check, sex, check, and now baseball.

“I don’t understand,” Cas is saying petulantly, staring down at the field. Rizzo’d just been hit with a pitch and was taking the walk to first, and Cas’ eyes were squinted to the degree that Dean knew meant none of this was adding up. “Why doesn’t he hit him back?”

“It’s a no-contact sport man. He’d be kicked out faster than that time Benny went after the linesman with his water bottle.”

Cas purses his lips and looks entirely too skeptical for a hockey player who refuses to get into any fights himself, but settles back into his seat anyway, casually leaning into Dean and shoving a hand into the box of Cracker Jacks he’s holding in his lap. It is not a movement that makes his chest feel all warm and stupid, no sir-ee.

Alright, so maybe Dean’s reasons for coming to the game weren’t completely selfless. Maybe they were supposed to be here next week, parading the Cup around the field to the adoring fans of Chicago. And maybe Dean wanted to be the first one to show Cas baseball. And maybe they haven’t had a date since Dean’s own personal ‘I’m a bisexual’ Tony Stark moment.

So sue him. Dean wanted to be on a normal fucking date with his boyfriend. Celebrities got to go to Wrigley Field all the time without being bothered, hell, Bill Murray was here opening day, Dean figured he could buy a foam finger and teach Cas what a double play was without anyone bugging them and asking for a selfie on Snap-whatever so they could turn him into one of those big-eyed kitten things.

Really the only thing that had kept Dean from snatching the phone back was Cas’ fascination with the whole thing. And now Cas sends Dean pictures with the Snap…whatever. So it’s kind of a win.

Montero grounds out to third, leaving Rizzo high and dry halfway between second and first for the third out, and Dean groans, dropping his head to Cas’ shoulder.

“Why didn’t he run faster?” Cas asks mildly, totally unsympathetic to Dean’s pain and the game’s score of two to one. The Cubs are not winning.

“Because he’s the catcher, Cas,” Dean explains into the fabric of his shirt. _Dean’s_ shirt actually, and Dean’s not really sure why he let Cas out of the apartment in his favorite Cubs shirt, a soft, bright blue tee that does horrible, stomach-clench inducing things to Cas’ eyes.

“Why does being the catcher matter?” Cas grumbles. “Gabriel is only the goaltender, and he could have run faster than that in all his gear.”

“ _Only_ the goaltender? Cassie, I’m hurt!”

Dean’s head shoots up so fast at the sound of the familiar voice that he ends up cricking his neck and yelping in pain, drawing a scrutinizing glance from the one of the teens in the seats in front of them. The broad width of Cas’ palm is caressing the back of Dean’s neck before he even manages to turn around, but he ignores how fucking big his hand feels (for the moment) to glare at Gabriel. “What the hell are you doing here?”

And of course, it can’t be just Gabriel. Balthazar and Sam are in tow, and by the sheepish look on his brother’s face Dean knows he’s only just figured out that he’s crashing a date.

“Red line’s backed to hell, and I’ve got a reputation on Addison,” Gabriel says cheerfully.

“He kept putting on the hats offered by the street vendors outside and yelling ‘I’M GABRIEL MILTON’ when they asked him to pay,” Sam said dryly.

“I didn’t see you complaining when you got a free hat,” Gabriel says indignantly.

“He didn’t like the attention darling,” Balthazar drawls, sporting a brand-new looking Cubs cap of his own.

“I’m fine with attention, it was the waiting to be arrested part I wasn’t into.”

“Providing that feeling to others is integral to my character,” Gabriel sniffs.

“I wasn’t asking what took you so long to get here,” Dean cuts in before Gabriel can continue yapping. “I meant why are you here in the first place?”

“Cassie invited us.”

Dean turns to look at Cas accusingly, but Cas was as usual, totally oblivious, his brow furrowed as he stared down at the baseball field. “You inviting people on our date, Cas?” he asks, only half joking.

Cas glances at him, frowning slightly in that way he did when Dean was being particularly confusing. “All of our dates have involved our friends.”

There’s a burst of laughter behind him, and Dean hopes for the sake of Sam’s hair length he’s not one of the ones laughing. This is why he’d wanted a normal date to begin with. It wasn’t just that he and Cas hadn’t had a chance to really do the relationship thing out of the spotlight yet, he doesn’t think Cas knows anything about dating, period. If Dean is going to be that experience for him, he doesn’t want to fuck him up by making him think all romantic outings involve dragging the hockey team around with them.

“For the record, I didn’t know this was a date,” Sam says, and Gabriel and Balthazar burst into laughter again.

“Is something wrong?” Cas asks, finally tearing his gaze away from the riveting mascot race taking place on the field.

“Yeah, you cockblocked your own boyfriend,” Gabriel says cheerfully.

Cas squints at Gabriel. “Dean can have sex whenever he asks.”

Dean feels his ears going red as Balthazar lets out a whoop and Sam looks like he wants to sink into the concrete of the stadium. “Usually you don’t bring your teammates on dates, Cas,” he mutters. “Like the bowling alley.”

“Oh,” Cas’ face clears. “You wanted to have time with just me.”

“Yeah, I mean – yeah.”

“This is sickening,” Gabriel informs them.

“Further,” Balthazar adds, “I’m offended. The season has been over a few weeks and you’re already trying to get away from us?”

“Yeah, what happened to us being a family, Dean-o?”

“I think it’s pretty fair for them to want some time alone,” Sam says in a matter-of-fact voice. “Especially with how much ownership the public has taken of their relationship.”

“Thank you, Sammy.”

Cas is getting that look on his face again, the are-you-happy-with-our-current-situation-Dean look, and he hurries to cut that off real quick. Because he’s not unhappy in the slightest. It’s just a lot. With the team and the brand new bisexual reckoning and a relationship with someone he really, genuinely cares about…it’s a lot.

Ha, bisexual reckoning. Title of his sex tape.

“Hey, what about an American lesson?”

Cas huffs like he knows exactly what Dean is doing. “I thought this already was an American lesson.”

“Well maybe I’ve been doing a shitty job, so good thing Sammy with his big brain and Gabe and Balthazar with…well, whatever, good thing they’re here to help.”

“With my big dick,” Gabriel supplies helpfully, but he’s rightfully ignored.

“I’m French Canadian,” Balthazar says scathingly, like that’s something he should be bragging about out loud at Wrigley Field.

“Pardon-vous,” Gabriel tells him, elbowing away as he leans over the plastic of their seats, inserting his face right between Dean and Cas. “Listen Cassie, this is all you need to know about America – sex, drugs, rock n’ roll.”

“That’s the fifties, Gabriel,” Sam says in exasperation.

“Is it?” Gabriel asks in surprise. “Nobody ever told me that.”

Balthazar pats him on the back. “The loss to the porn industry would be too much.”

“This is dumb,” Gabriel says loudly. “Why do we have to teach Cassie American shit when he’s dating the poster boy?”

“Hey!” Dean protests.

“He’s not exactly wrong, Dean,” Sam says, looking extremely pained to say it. “Sports, muscle cars, disillusionment with freedom of choice, pie…”

“Disillusionment wi – don’t you start some free will and how it relates to masculinity and late-in-life evolving sexuality crap, we’re at fucking ball game!”

“Dean does like pie,” Cas says thoughtfully, “and I would like to hear Sam’s thoughts on American culture and sex.”

“No you don’t,” Dean says quickly, twisting around to face the field again, just in time to watch Schwarber drop an easy flyball to center. “We’re never winning the World Series,” he groans quietly.

“Is that what we’re here for?” Balthazar asks mildly. “I thought we were determining top or bottom.”

“Top,” Cas informs him.

Gabriel chokes on the Cracker Jacks he’d swiped from the box shoved in between Dean’s seat and the one next to him. “Tell us more, Cassie.”

“He means the inning, jackass,” Dean snaps.

“Sure,” Cas says easily. Dean wants to pretend he’s only imagining the hint of smile at the corner of his mouth, but it’s there.

Dean slings his arm across the back of their blue plastic seats and turns his body fully towards Gabriel and Balthazar. “Didn’t you two have something better to do than trek your asses downtown to harass me?”

“And miss baby’s first bisexual steps?”

“Fuck off,” Dean snarls, coming half out of his seat, and Cas, who had been reaching for the Cracker Jack box again, lays his palm on Dean’s knee instead and squeezes.

“Maybe you and Balthazar should go get some cotton candy,” Sam says in that edge-of-steel tone of voice that makes him such a great alternate captain.

“Ohhhh, I love it when you get all dom on us, Sammy-boy,” Gabriel says cheerfully, but to Dean’s surprise, he actually gets up, dragging Balthazar with him. “Come on Balthy, there’s gotta be funnel cake somewhere in this dump.”

Dean watches them go, barely surprised when they stop on the stairs to crowd a vendor selling headbands with little bobbing cub paws on them. He knows he has their support, is certain he does, but Gabriel is also, unapologetically, a massive insensitive dick. “I hope they don’t come back,” he mutters.

“I’m sure they’ll be distracted by something shiny,” Sam shifts uncomfortably. “I really am sorry for crashing your date, Dean.”

“It’s fine,” Dean says. “Cas wanted you here, so.”

“Dean,” Cas says mildly, his thumb caressing the seam of his jeans running up the side of his knee. “I have told you a long time ago that I would need help learning American customs.”

Dean laughs. “Dating ain’t exactly American, Cas.”

“No,” Cas agrees, turning to look at him. “But it is still foreign to me.” He leans closer, lowering his voice, “and I would like to please you.”

Dean ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t think you got any worries there, Cas.”

“Is this a thing you guys are doing all summer?” Sam asks with interest.

“Whaddya mean?”

“Showing Cas American stuff,” Sam clarifies. “What else are you doing? The Fourth of July? Fishing at the cabin?”

“Roadtrips,” Dean says without thinking, and it suddenly hits him how badly he wants to be out on the highway, just him, Cas and his Baby.

Sam smiles at him. “What about you, Cas?”

“What do you mean?” Cas replies, and Dean realizes he’s been staring at him, and what he can only imagine is the extremely embarrassing look that just came over his face at the thought of Cas in the passenger seat of Baby with the windows rolled down and his hair ruffling in the breeze of open road.

“Dunno, seems like if Dean is showing you American stuff, you should get to show him some Russian stuff.”

Dean widens his eyes in panic at Cas, but he’s already opened his mouth, proudly proclaiming, “I’m teaching Dean Russian.”

“What?” Sam exclaims in delight. “Say something in Russian, Dean.”

“I’m not any good,” Dean mumbles.

“That’s not true,” Cas counters immediately. “Dean is very smart, and quick. He listens very closely when I speak.”

“Oh yeah,” Sam says with a huge, shit-eating grin. “I bet he’s really into learning.”

Dean says something very rude in Russian in response, which has Cas smiling softly at him even though Sam’s giant body has practically slid off his seat from laughing so hard, so Dean can’t really call it a loss. In all honesty, he doesn’t think he has learned as much Russian as he should have for Cas, but Cas is patient, and too good for Dean, and seems delighted over every stumbling sentence he utters and every sloppy, Kindergarten-level note he writes in Cyrillic.

“ты мое сердце” Cas tells him softly as Sam picks himself off the beer-stained concrete, and sometimes Cas still speaks too quickly for him (Dean’s pretty sure he does it on purpose) but he’ll figure that one out someday.

The crack of a bat and a huge cheer echoes through the stadium, and Dean is momentarily distracted as Bryant sends a ball deep to left center, jumping to his feet and pulling Cas with him when it manages to fly over the wall.

“HOMERUN!” he yells, grinning wildly at Cas, and Cas, clearly having no idea what’s going on, gives him one of his crinkly eyed, gummy smiles.

His hand is cradling the back of Cas’ head, his lips pressed to his, before the cheers have died down, and it’s lucky Sam is there to clear his throat when it’s time to sit down again.

“Did you do stuff like this over the summer at home, Cas?” Sam asks, probably in some dumb attempt to pretend he never saw his brother making out with his boyfriend in public. Dean smirks at him and Sam scowls.

“Uh,” Cas takes a minute to collect himself, and Dean’s smirk grows wider. “Mostly I trained over the summer. Weights, laps,” he shrugs. “Ready for the next season.”

“But what did you do for fun?” Sam asks, and Dean shoots him a warning look. He still doesn’t know much about Cas’ life in Russia, not really for lack of trying. Anna won’t say much about it either, though in typical fashion she seems much more outwardly angry about it than Cas ever is. Cas just seems…resigned. But he always gets moody when it’s brought up, and Dean is still too emotionally stupid to figure out how to broach it.

“Training was fun,” Cas says shortly, and Sam takes the hint and keeps his mouth shut.

Baez draws a ball from the pitcher on field, and Dean takes the opportunity to point out the manual scoreboard to Cas. “It’s one of the oldest ones in the country,” he tells him proudly as the number of balls flips over to two. “None of that electronic crap.”

“What is a K?” Cas asks, studying the scoreboard closely.

“Strikeout.”

“Why is it a K?”

“Because –” Dean starts before pausing. “Actually, I don’t know.”

“If it makes you feel better, I don’t know either.”

“Shut up Sam, we’re on a date.”

“Sorry,” Sam says, a smile in his voice. “In that case, Cas, how are you liking baseball?”

“You’re not on the date with us, jackass.”

“Dean,” Cas nudges him, a note of panic in his voice. “Dean, I think one of those baseballs is coming towards us.”

“What?” Dean quickly takes in the people around them, all of whom are on their feet craning their necks, and quickly realizes what must be happening. “Oh shit.” He steps slightly in front of Cas, like that’s going to help, and squints his eyes at the sky, catching sight of the foul ball coming right towards them. He hadn’t brought a mitt and he wasn’t totally confident in his ability to catch the ball when he hasn’t handled a baseball since his last pick-up game with Bobby at the age of twelve, but he could at least keep it from giving Cas a concussion.

“Are you going to catch it?” Cas asks with interest and total disregard to the safety of his face, which Dean happens to lov – no, nope, like, a lot.

“Well now I have to, or it’s gonna be a failed date,” Dean jokes (he’s not joking at all). The college kids in front of them are all yelling over one another in anticipation, and Dean has already decided he’s not going to degrade himself to the point of tussling with the kid in a backwards cap and a mitt standing in front of him even as the ball lands directly into his cupped, upturned hands.

“Son of a bitch,” he swears at the sharp sting of the ball slapping against his palms even as the group of kids in front of him break into cheers.

“You caught it,” Cas says in a tone of voice that suggests Dean just completed the last brushstroke on the next great work of modern art, and all Dean can do is turn to him and press it into his hands.

“It’s for you,” he says, and can’t look away as Cas stares at the dingy, scuffed baseball with reverence.

“Uh, Dean?”

“Not now, Sam.”

“Dean,” Sam says again, and Dean jerks his gaze away from Cas to snap at him when he realizes the group of kids in front of them who had been cheering seconds ago were now staring openly.

“-Chicago Calvary’s very own Dean Winchester,” the announcer booms. “Seems his catch is as good as his slapshot!”

The crowd in the stadium is screaming more than a foul ball warrants, and Dean realizes that he and Cas are being displayed on the stadium’s Jumbotron, Sam’s abnormally large torso filling out the background and clip art animations of hockey sticks and their logo dancing around the border.

“-brought along his teammates, Sam Winchester and Castiel Krushnic!”

“THEY’RE DATING!” someone nearby their seats yells, and Dean groans. The announcer continues with information about their appearance with the Stanley Cup coming up at the game next week, but Dean is already clasping Cas’ hand, tugging.

“Time to get a hotdog. Hold down the fort, Sammy.”

“Sure thing,” Sam shrugs, although Dean can see how his shoulders have hunched, and he knows his brother is hating the attention as much as he is. He doesn’t know why hockey players are the most awkwardly anti-social professional athletes to walk the face of the planet, and the media never leaves him alone long enough to figure it out.

“Please hold onto this,” Cas says solemnly, handing his foul ball over to Sam, and Sam smiles, his giant paw closing over it.

“Of course, Cas.”

Dean keeps a tight hold of Cas’ hand as they push past the row of people in the seats beside them now unabashedly gawping, ignoring the small voice inside his head that still hisses _don’t hold his hand, people are looking, shame, shame, shame_. Cas squeezes, as if he can read Dean’s mind, and he looks back gratefully as they reach the stairs that lead below the bleachers and into the cool dark concession area.

“We don’t have to get a hotdog,” Dean says sheepishly, “I just…” He wasn’t quite sure what to say. He liked dating Cas. He wants to date Cas, badly. It was his choice to publicly come out, because he hadn’t wanted to hide and because, even though Dean didn’t think this was the case, others were convinced that he was a good role model, that just by existing, he could help others.

He just hadn’t thought that his coming out would be so…out there.

He could do this though. He was a public figure. He signed up for this.

Cas is gazing at him, his eyes soft. Dean isn’t totally sure what he’s thinking. He’d talked to Cas before announcing they were dating, obviously, and Cas had been okay with it, but Dean sometimes wonders. Cas had never come out on his own, he’d come out as Cas-and-Dean. And Dean didn’t go looking for fan chatter, had actively tried to avoid it after the press release a few weeks back, but Charlie had informed him of multiple reddit boards dedicated to questioning Cas’ sexuality, some nasty shit about Cas being Russian and queer, and questioning the stability of the team next season.

It shouldn’t be this hard. They were just them, together. It was all this extra bullshit weighing Dean down, dragging him through old familiar shame and the new guilt that whatever Cas was going through, that was his fault too, and he wasn’t even brave enough to ask about it.

“I think I do want a hotdog,” Cas nods, and when Dean tries to drop his hand, Cas doesn’t let him.

Despite the game being well into the sixth inning, the concourse surrounding the field is still crowded with fans in white and blue grabbing beers and overpriced keychains. The concession stand at the foot of the stairs has multiple lines about ten people deep, and Dean has to ignore niceties and push through the crowd to situate himself and Cas where he thinks the end of one of the lines is.

“You excited for your first hotdog?”

Cas wrinkles his nose. “I’ve had a hotdog before Dean, at your insistence.”

Dean grins fondly at the memory of Cas asking about a million questions about what exactly was in a hotdog. Dean hadn’t told him (because frankly he wasn’t that confident) but Cas had ended up liking it anyway, and even better, he’d hated ketchup, so at least he’ll fit in with this city more than Dean on that front. “You’ve never had a hotdog at a ballgame Cas, which is when it tastes the best.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, Dean, how does baseball make a hotdog taste better?”

Dean is about to open his mouth and go off about dirty hotdog water being the _right kind_ of dirty hotdog water and chomping down on a bun soaked through by the Bud Light of the guy behind you who’d jumped up to scream at the ump when he notices the two girls who had gotten in line behind him out of the corner of his eye. They’re fidgeting and whispering, eying his and Cas’ clasped hands. One of them seems more adamant than the other and keeps elbowing the girl at her side as punctuation to her whispers.

Dean turns back to face front, hand tightening around Cas’ as he braces himself for a fan interaction or some hateful bullshit. He’s experienced both in the two very short weeks he’s been out, and while he’d prefer one over the other, even the fan interactions have taken on more layers that he’s still not comfortable navigating.

He’s not some sort of advocate, and sooner or later someone is gonna call him out for the fraud he is.

“Dean,” Cas starts, at the same time one of the girls (Dean’s gonna put money on Elbows) says, “Castiel?”

Cas turns, and Dean studies the two girls more closely. They’re definitely teens, maybe college-aged, one with her hair in a blonde braid and a Cubs hat pulled low over her brow, one with curly dark hair and a Derek Lee jersey hanging open over her plain black tee.

The blonde (previously Elbows) catches Dean staring and gives him a small, confident half quirk of her lips before turning her attention back to Cas. “Castiel Krushnic, right?”

“That is me,” Cas says, a polite, social-interaction-terrifies-me smile fixed firmly on his face. “Hello.”

“Holy shit,” curly-haired girl blurts out, and the blonde elbows her one last time, hissing “be cool” under her breath.

Cas’ smile is slipping from fixed to something slightly more natural, and Dean can hear the ease in the softening of his accent when he asks, “Can I help?”

“We wanted to say thanks,” Blondie tells him boldly. “Kaia and I didn’t have a great time as kids, but we did watch a lot of sports. It’s kinda sucked not seeing people like us.”

“Ahhh,” Cas nods in understanding. “You want to thank Dean.”

“No, we want to thank you,” Blondie says, then grins cheekily at Dean. “I mean – no offense, thanks to you too, Dean.”

“None taken,” Dean tells her, genuinely meaning it and enjoying the look on Cas’ face, like he’s touched but isn’t sure why.

“I think what Claire’s trying to say is we relate to Castiel a little more,” the curly-haired girl speaks up, shooting Blondie a look. “We…” she pauses, and looks like she’s struggling to find the right words.

“It’s cool you haven’t said anything,” Claire says bluntly. “You just are. That’s cool. That’s me and Kaia. We just are. Y’know?”

Dean doesn’t know at all, but Cas is completely open now, smiling gently in a way that Dean’s only ever seen directed at him and Anna. “Yes, I understand. I am glad.”

“Anyway,” Claire shifts from one foot to another, then suddenly shoots Dean another grin, though he thinks she must still be talking to Cas when she says, “thanks,” again before grabbing Kaia’s hand and pulling her down the concourse.

It’s a bit of a whiplash after that to reach the front of the line and order two hotdogs and two beers from a harried concession stand clerk, and Dean is silent as he carefully ferries the flimsy cardboard box of their food and drinks over to a condiment station. Cas takes his hot dog and starts loading it with bright green relish, and Dean watches in disgust before picking up his own and shoving it under the ketchup spout.

“Tough crowd,” he tries to laugh casually, attempting to ignore the fact that anxiety is eating away at his stomach again. “So was I supposed to come out or not?”

Cas looks at him sharply, abandoning his attempt to drown his hotdog in fucking cucumber jam. “Dean,” he says lowly. “You were not supposed to be doing anything. You did what was best for you.”

He shrugs helplessly at him. “Yeah, I guess, but those chicks weren’t into it.”

“That is not what they said,” Cas frowns. “Dean, your owning who you are allows me to be who I am without labeling it. You are, so I am. Those girls would not know to thank me without you. It is why we work. We are real.”

Dean purses his lips, giving the ketchup lever one more pump. “You ever gonna tell me what you are?”

Cas rolls his eyes. “Such a very strange question,” he says. “I am your teammate – family I choose, and I love you.”

“Shut up,” Dean says, and shoves half his hotdog into his mouth.

Cas makes a disapproving face at him (he learned that from Sam, bastard) and takes a more manageable bite of his own hotdog. The screen hanging above them shows the inning turning over to seventh, the Cubs having managed to load the bases and not make anything of it. Dean considers whether Satan would accept striking his name off the cup in exchange for just a playoff appearance.

“I do know some American things on my own,” Cas says randomly, and it takes Dean a minute to realize he’s skipping the emotional-slash-sexual identity stuff and rounding right back around to their earlier conversation.

Dean loves him way too much.

“When are you learning American stuff on your own?” he demands.

“When I am at home.” Cas technically still has his own place, and still spends time there the ten hours a week he’s not with Dean. It’s almost lucky Cas still can’t feed himself, because he always wanders back to Dean’s in a reasonable amount of time.

“You hiding some other sexy tutor in your closet?”

“I am watching movies.”

“Without me?” Dean yelps, way more offended than he has any right to be. Watching movies is kind of their thing, and it hadn’t even occurred to him that Cas would just do it on his own time.

“I am not watching your cowboy movies, Dean.”

“Well that’s something, I guess,” Dean says, slightly sullen. “What have you been watching?”

Cas hums and finishes the rest of his hotdog, wiping his hands on a napkin from the dispenser beside them. “I can show you.”

“Show me?” Dean repeats, washing his hotdog down with about half his beer. “How?”

“You have to follow me,” Cas says. “Leave the beer.”

Dean’s going to protest, but Cas has got that look in his eye that always preemptively warns Dean to shut up, so he does, doesn’t even point out Cas hasn’t touched his fifteen dollar Budweiser as he lets himself be led down the concourse.

Cas looks like he’s heading in the direction of a souvenir shop, and Dean guesses consumerism isn’t really that far off from anything “American” Cas thinks he’s learned on his own. Though Cas doesn’t really care about things, that bee from Six Flags that Dean had won him months and months ago does have a place of honor in their bedroom, and the only time Dean’d ever heard Cas raise his voice at Chekov was the one time he’d decided to use it as a chew toy.

If Cas really wanted Cubs gear, Dean wasn’t going to stop him.

Actually, the more Dean thought about Cas in baseball pants and a cap, the more he was extremely into the idea.

The mental image of Cas in a baseball uniform is so distracting that it takes him a moment to register that Cas has stopped moving and is swinging open the door to the men’s bathroom which was…not what Dean had been expecting.

Amazingly, it’s empty, but it is the top of the seventh, and men’s bathrooms never have lines like the women’s do anyway (he asked Sam about that once – big mistake. Some whole deal about sexism and society and culture that Dean truly did listen to but still doesn’t understand – did they not have enough toilets in there?) so it’s pretty easy to just walk in and out but –

“Cas,” he starts, “why are we -”

But then Cas slams him into and through a stall door with the giant iconic white “C” painted on it, and Dean can no longer think because there’s a metal bar digging into his hip and a tongue stuck halfway down his throat.

He manages to rip his mouth away long enough to stupidly gasp, “what movie is this?”

Cas pulls away, his hair wild and eyes glinting. “American Pie.”

“Oh, fuck,” Dean groans. His brain is telling him to shut it down right now, because a public restroom they hadn’t even locked probably wasn’t the best choice for the Cav’s PR team, but if Cas was watching nineties movies and got voyeurism out of them, Dean wasn’t gonna be the one to discourage him. They were at Wrigley Field for fuck’s sake, sixteen-year-old him would have already blown his load.

Cas kisses him again, gentler this time, but there’s a slow urgent build behind it as he works his way into Dean’s mouth. Dean is so focused on the feeling of Cas and just being there with him that he makes an embarrassing noise when Cas pulls away, ducking his head to mouth at Dean’s neck instead while his hands ruck up his shirt.

Dean, already sporting a sizable boner, is surprised there’s any blood left in his body when Cas manages to undo his belt with one hand, his other firmly gripped around the bare skin above Dean’s waistband and below his shirt.

“Can I tell you,” Cas says, placing a kiss on Dean’s collarbone as he undoes his zipper, “I cannot believe that you wore a sports uniform when you spend your life in them.”

Dean does not have the brainpower left to be offended on behalf of his Ernie Banks jersey. “Baseball players are cool,” he says, trying to thrust forward and whimpering when Cas’ hand on his hip holds him back with no effort at all. “And hot.”

“Hockey players are hot,” Cas growls, pushing the jersey aside. “You are hot. And ridiculous. You play dress up and it’s…the word’s like a deer.”

“Gnng, endearing?” Dean chokes out, and then Cas bites the juncture of his shoulder and neck, hard, which makes him an asshole, and Dean is sobbing out some manly swears and absolutely not babbling incoherent nonsense when Cas managed to drop his jeans to the floor and sinks down onto his knees.

It's at this point that Dean realizes one, he can hear noises outside their stall, which means the bathroom is no longer empty, and that two, he’s pretty sure the only thing holding the stall door closed is his body pressed against it, something he doesn’t have much faith in with the way his legs are shaking and Cas murmuring how good he is.

“Cas,” he hisses, threading his fingers through Cas’ hair, but Cas seems to take this as the signal to _go_ , and Dean doesn’t remember what the fuck he thought was so important to interrupt with when Cas’ thick, calloused fingers are wrapped around his dick.

Except apparently “go” doesn’t mean the same thing in Cas-land. Dean’s eyes had slammed shut in anticipation, but there’s no follow up of tongue or wet heat, just Cas’ hand, methodically jacking Dean off.

It’s fucking good, but it’s slow, and it’s driving Dean insane.

“Everything alright down there, buddy?” he asks, eyes still squeezed shut. His hips have begun rocking to the slow pace Cas has set, and it’s really only the hand still wrapped like a steel band around his hip holding him back.

“You are very beautiful,” Cas says, solemn, and Dean laughs.

“My dick is flattered,” he grins, but when he opens his eyes to wink, Cas is staring at his face with a look Dean doesn’t really have the capacity to identify on his own.

“Uh,” Dean’s dick is still out, and his hips are still rocking, but somehow that seems less important now. “Why American Pie?”

“You love pie,” Cas says simply, and then he wraps his mouth around Dean’s cock.

There is no way whoever is in the bathroom with them doesn’t hear Dean’s ensuing yelp, and the concern might have been greater if Cas wasn’t working him over so well, his tongue swirling around Dean’s head while his hand keeps a solid grip at his base.

Dean’s hand is still gripped in Cas’ hair but it’s more a lifeline than anything else, a way to keep hold of him while Cas methodically works his way down Dean’s dick and begins deepthroating, his pace picking up speed to match the rhythm of Dean’s shallow breathing. Dean thinks he’s gonna get there just like this, holding onto Cas for dear life with no plans of ever letting go, but then Cas’ other hand finally releases his hip and Dean feels a dry finger circle his asshole, and it’s over folks, that’s all she wrote.

Cas actually swallows most of him down, face adorably disgruntled when Dean starts snickering because he managed to smear cum across his cheek. “Shh,” Cas tells him sternly, and Dean squawks.

“You’re worried about being quiet _now_?”

“Shh,” he repeats, still looking stern, but Dean knows a Cas tease when he sees one, and he pulls Cas to his feet, kissing him deeply. “You taste like jizz.”

“It’s yours,” Cas informs him dryly.

Dean laughs, burying his face in Cas’ neck. “Better not be on my jersey.”

“I am sure your clothes are safe, Dean.”

The bathroom is fairly silent again, so maybe it’s safe to leave. It’ll be a fucking miracle if they manage to make it out of here without anyone noticing, but Dean feels like he deserves some miracles. He’s about to reluctantly pull his face away from the warmth of Cas’ skin when his ears perk up, and he manages to catch what the intercom is piping in from the ballfield.

“Dean?” Cas says uncertainly, and Dean realizes it’s probably weird to have your boyfriend shaking against you with laughter two minutes after a mind-blowing orgasm. So he lifts his mouth to Cas’ ear instead and softly croons, “for it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out at the ollllllld, baaaaaaall, gaaaaaaame.”

Cas doesn’t get it, but Dean will teach him. They’ve got time.

**Author's Note:**

> Tags will be updated as chapters are added.


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